by David Hockey
He thought about the two families as he bicycled around the town. ‘It can’t be the Deans, both their sons are in the army; they must be patriotic. It could be the Smiths. I think they came here three or four years ago. They’re old enough to have children who could be fighting. I’ll ask them that and see what they say.’
That wasn’t possible for when he knocked on their kitchen door there was no answer. This often happened for people could be at work or shopping or visiting friends. Jack left the two paper bags inside their back porch. ‘I wonder who would know about them. Perhaps they go to the same church that mom goes to. I’ll ask her when I get home.’
Jack didn’t go to church although his mother wanted him to go with her. Jack’s dad didn’t believe ‘in that kind of nonsense’ and wouldn’t let Jack go.
It took Jack over four hours to finish the deliveries so it was nearly six when he arrived home. His mother was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table holding her head in her hands and staring at the wall.
“Hi, mom. Hey, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”
“Yes I’m all right, Jack, but please sit down. I’ve got some bad news. Dad’s dead. A boy with a telegram came shortly after I got home this afternoon. It doesn’t say what happened, just that they’re sorry and that he’s dead.”
“Oh, mom.” Jack sat down next to her and put his arms around her shoulders and hugged.
They sat for a while, close together. Neither cried nor felt like crying, for this hadn’t been a very happy family when Jack’s dad was around. His father drank away most of the money he earned and was mean to Mary, his wife, telling her the food wasn’t good enough, the house needed cleaning and generally ordering her around though he didn’t hit her. He did hit Jack now and then, when the garden needed digging and Jack hadn’t done it or if Jack didn’t do things quite the way he wanted.
After ten minutes or so Jack asked his mother how they would manage now that money from his dad wouldn’t be coming in.
“We’ll be alright,” she said. “I’ll get something from the army, I expect. It’ll be hard for a while and I’d better explain why. The rent’s nine shillings a week and I only get ten shillings and six pence from your dad’s pay. I don’t know if we’ll get that much in the future. We’ve been living on the money I’ve saved from the time when your dad was working for the telephone company, money from the sale of my parents’ house after they died and the shilling you give me from Mr. Stevens. I’ll have to find a job now.” This hadn’t been possible before because she wasn’t allowed to. “It looks as if I can’t afford to support a family,” his dad said every time she raised the topic.
“What kind of job mom? What can you do?”
“I can type. I worked as a typist before I married your dad. There’ll be jobs for typists, I expect. I’ll look in last weekend’s Post tomorrow, it lists jobs.”
It was a quiet supper that night as each thought about all the changes that Mr. Jones’ death would incur. Just before going to bed Jack remembered about asking his mother about the Smiths but immediately dismissed the idea; he couldn’t think about anything other than the problems his dad’s death would incur. ‘There’ll be less money but it’ll make our lives a little easier,’ he thought. But his dad was still his dad and he’d miss him even though he didn’t like him very much. He didn’t know what it would be like to live without a father in the house but people did. His last thoughts that night were that he should look for a full-time summer job and earn more money.
Chapter Six. Thursday, July 25 and Friday, July 26.
Jack told Mrs. Forester and Bob the next day about his dad’s death. They were very sorry and before Jack left Mrs. Forester gave him one of her loaves and a sponge cake. He didn’t stop to talk or explore any of the caves with Bob, telling both of them that he was going to look for a full-time summer job. “Mom’s looking for a job too. She can type and maybe do other things. If you hear about any let me know, please.”
During lunch Jack told his mom he was going to find a job.
“You can’t Jack. You can’t leave school until you’re fifteen.”
“I know that mom. Just for the summer. Something that’ll pay more than delivering groceries once a week.”
“You don’t have to do that Jack. We’ll get by. Anyway there won’t be many jobs an eleven-year old boy could take. Don’t worry about money, just do your best at school. That’s all I want.”
“Were there any jobs in the Post?”
“Not for just a typist. There was one for someone who could do shorthand and type but I don’t know shorthand. I could work in the ammunition factory but that would be very difficult; it’d mean catching two buses to the other side of Falmouth. I’d have to leave early and I’d get home late. I don’t want to do that, it’d not be good for either of us. Perhaps there will be something in next weekend’s paper.”
Jack cycled to Mr. Stephens’ shop after lunch and told him what had happened. After Mr. Stephens had said how sorry he was Jack said, “I’m going to look for a full-time job, I hope you don’t mind if I get one.”
“No, of course not. I’ll help, I’ll spread the word and maybe someone will know of one.”
Jack spent the rest of the afternoon hoeing the vegetable patch in the back garden. Mr. Symonds, who rented the other half of the semi-detached was a good gardener, growing many vegetables in his garden. He often advised Jack and his mother, suggesting what to grow and where they should be planted. Jack did the hard work in their garden, digging and hoeing, his mother did most of the rest. She also preserved many of the vegetables or stored them in the cellar and made jam from the berries they collected in the summer and fall.
Just before it grew dark Bob arrived. “Dad knows where you might find a job, at Mr. Lindsey’s. His helper was called up and he needs someone. Dad said you should be there at eight tomorrow morning. Do you know Mr. Lindsey? His farm’s the second one past ours, on the same side of the road.”
“Oh, thanks, Bob. I’ll be there. He’s the one that grows vegetables, right? I hope he won’t want me to hoe! I’ve already got sore hands from doing it this afternoon. But, whatever he wants I’ll take it.”
Jack was at Mr. Lindsey’s farm at seven fifty the next morning and caught him just as he was emerging from his back door.
“Mr. Lindsey?” Jack asked, “I’m Jack Jones. Bob Forester told me that you needed help. Can I work for you?”
“Hello Jack. How old are you? I need someone who can do a man’s job.”
“I’m eleven, Mr. Lindsey. I work in our own garden so I think I can help you with your vegetables.”
“Only eleven? You’re quite big for your age. Hmm, tell you what, I’ll take you on for today and see what you can do. If you can handle it then you can stay until school starts.”
“Oh, thank you Mr. Lindsey. Tell me what you’ll pay, please, we need the money.”
“I’ve heard you dad’s just died. That right?”
“Yes, we heard yesterday.”
“I’m sorry about that. Well, all I can pay is two and six a day. That is, if you’re good. I’ll pay you that for today. That’s for eight hours work. Did you bring a lunch?”
“Yes. It’s on my bike rack.”
“Put your bike in the shade then and come with me. There’s lettuces, cucumbers and onions to cut and pack before one. I take them to my Mansworth grocers this afternoon. I’ll tell you what to do while I’m away later.”
The morning passed very quickly. They pulled, washed and put the onions in five large boxes first. Stopped and had a drink of cold tea at ten, then Jack cut the cucumbers, rinsed them and put them in five more boxes while Mr. Lindsey worked with the lettuce.
They finished close to twelve thirty and Jack joined Mr. And Mrs. Lindsey in their kitchen to eat his sandwiches, eat a slice of apple pie that Mrs. Lindsey gave him and drink a mug of tea, hot this time.
“You did well this morning, Jack. I’d like you to hoe and hill the potatoes this aft
ernoon. You know how to do that, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll show you the rows now. Be back about three, Sue. I’ll see what you’ve done when I get back, Jack.”
“Thanks, Mr. Lindsey. And thank you for the pie and tea, Mrs. Lindsey.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Jack. We need help these days.”
Jack borrowed some gloves from Mrs. Lindsey half-an-hour after Mr. Lindsey had left, for blisters were starting to form on his hands. She gave him an old pair of her own and they fitted fairly well. They helped a lot and he had just finished the potatoes when Mr. Lindsey returned.
“You’ve done a good job there Jack. Ah, I’m glad you got some gloves. Your hands, are they okay?”
“Not too bad. Hoeing is always hard on them.”
“I know. It gets better as you go on. Okay, we’ll transplant some broccoli now.”
At four-thirty Mr. Lindsey told Jack it was time he stopped working and took him to the kitchen.
“Here’s your pay. Two shillings and sixpence, and I’d like you to work for me, Monday to Friday. Do you think you can manage that, the work might be hard sometimes but not always.”
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Lindsey. I’ll be here at eight on Monday.”
He gave Mrs. Lindsey her gloves and rode home with his earnings carefully stowed in his trouser pocket.
“Hi, mom,” he cried, as he burst into the kitchen. “Here’s what I earned today,” and he plonked the money on the table. “And Mr. Lindsey wants me to work. Monday to Friday, two shillings and sixpence a day. Twelve shillings and sixpence a week. Isn’t that good?”
“It’s wonderful, Jack. We’ll be in luxury if I get a job too. Let’s celebrate. We’ll have fish and chips tonight. Wash up then get some from Bittern’s.”
“We could have them every Friday from now on, couldn’t we mom?”
“Yes, thanks to you son,” and she gave Jack a big kiss.
Chapter Seven. Saturday. July 27.
Jack stayed in bed until nine, finishing a Biggles story, one of the four library books he took out every two weeks. He loved reading and thought it must be nice to write books for a living but he felt no urge to write, although he enjoyed writing essays for Mrs. Grant.
After breakfast he called on Bob and helped him around the farm, moving the chicken hutches and feeding the pigs, whilst telling him about Mr. Lindsay’s farm and what he did there.
“He pays me two and six a day, Bob! I give it all to mom and we had fish and chips last night.”
“Lucky you. The last time I had them was after the big storm and there was no electricity for two days. Want to go to the caves this afternoon?”
“No, can’t. I’ve still got my job with Mr. Stevens. You know, I collect some of the money and ration coupons and might have to deliver groceries.”
“Ah, yes. Forgot. Then tomorrow, how about we have lunch in the treehouse and talk about finding the collaborator.”
“Okay. See you at twelve thirty?”
“Yes.”
Jack told Mr. Stevens about his job as soon as he entered the grocery Saturday afternoon.
“Oh, well that’s good, Jack, though I’ll have to get another boy to deliver on Wednesdays. Can you still work on Saturdays? I hope so, you know what to do and where people live.”
“Yes, I’d like to do that.”
“Good. Well, here’s the lists for the coupons and money still to be collected this week and there are nine orders to deliver. I’ll help you make them up.”
Mr. Stevens gave Jack a shilling for his afternoon’s work and Jack bought some liquorice and a bar of MacIntosh Toffee for his mother then walked to the newsagent and bought a copy of the Falmouth Post. There was a picture of Bob and him on the front page with the story of how they’d been captured by the Nazi pilot on Monday and how he had got away. He showed his mother the picture and read the story to her as soon as he got in.
“That’s something to write about in your next English class, Jack,” she said. “Everybody will be interested.”
“I hope my English teacher will be as good as Mrs. Grant.”
“I expect he will be Jack.”
“Ah, yes. All the teachers at the grammar school are men, aren’t they.”
“Yes, that’s right. Let me look at the classified section, Jack. I want to see if there are any jobs I could apply for,” and she held out her hand for the paper. Two minutes later she said, “Nobody wanted typists this week. Just work in the factories or the Land Army. We’ll have to live on what you bring in and savings, Jack. Maybe there’ll be something I could do next week.”
They listened to the news during supper, talked about the bombing, glad they were far away from Southampton where many bombs were being dropped, then sat in easy chairs to listen to the Children’s Hour and two other programs until Jack went to bed.
Sunday morning he read Swallows and Amazons, a book the librarian recommended and was hooked. “I’m going to read all his other stories, mom. They’re great!”
“What’s it about?”
“Children sailing and having adventures. It’d be nice to have a boat.”
“A bit rough along this coast, Jack.”
“They were sailing on a lake, mom. Oh, can you make me a sandwich for lunch. I’ll have it with Bob in the treehouse.”
“Okay. I hope there are no Jerrys there this time.”
After lunch Bob asked Jack if he had any luck finding out if there was a collaborator.
“No. I know who ordered extra round loaves and I’ll have to ask mom if she knows anything about the Smiths who live on Beach road. There’s a chance they go to the same church as she does. I meant to do that Thursday but forgot. Hey, who’s that?” Someone was climbing the branches towards the trapdoor.
Bob, who was sitting closest to the rope handle pulled it up and let it fall back onto the floor. A boy’s head appeared and a voice said, “Can I come in?”
“Who are you?” Bob asked.
“Nigel. Nigel Thorne. I read what happened to you in the paper and looked for the treehouse. I guessed it must be around here because it said where the farm was. Can I come in, please?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Jack, and he moved over to make more room. “Why did you come here?”
“Because I want to build a treehouse. We have a good tree at the bottom of our garden and I’ve always wanted a house in it. I though that if I could see how this one was made I could describe it to dad and we could make one.”
“Oh. Well, look around. We made this one, at least we helped Bob’s dad make it two years ago. Where’s your house?”
“At the end of Hook’s Road. Do you know the place?”
“Not me,” said Bob.
“Nor me,” echoed Jack.
“Well, it’s on the east side of Mansworth. Oh, you’ve got a window and a metal roof here. I don’t think we could get corrugated iron now. We’d have to make ours out of wood, I suppose.”
“It’d leak if you did that.”
“Yes. Could you show me the cave where you hid? I’d like to see that.”
“All right. Think we need the spade, Bob?”
“Probably not. Hope the tide’s out. I’ll climb the look-out tree.” He left the house and Jack and Nigel followed.
As they walked towards the look-out tree Jack explained why they had one and reminded Nigel that the beach was out-of-bounds. “But we go there sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Looking for barrels of brandy. Not found any yet.”
“I see. Where do you go to school?”
“We’re going to Mansworth Grammar school in September. Where do you go?”
“To Wamister. It’s near Higher Treluswell. Dad went there.”
“That’s a public school, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I board there.”
“You’re home for the summer holiday then?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m thirteen. You must be eleven if this will be y
our first year in a grammar school.”
“Yes, we’re both eleven.”
“We can go now,” said Bob, as he climbed down. “There’s no one on the trail.”
“Okay. Follow us, Nigel.”
They showed Nigel the cave and the hole through which Jack had worked his way into the next cave and they pointed to where the U-boat had been.
“How do you think they knew he was here?” asked Nigel.
“Don’t know, but we think he found a collaborator who radioed to Germany,” said Bob, and explained about the fresh bread they had eaten.
“My word! We should look for him. Maybe I can help. I can make wireless sets. I made one last year and I listen to the BBC in my bedroom with it.”
“Wow! That’s just what we want,” exclaimed Jack.
Chapter Eight. Sunday. July 28.
As they walked back to the treehouse they discussed wireless sets. Nigel said he belonged to the school’s radio club and his dad had given him valves, variable capacitors and resistors for birthday and Christmas presents. “Of course, my wireless won’t pick up any signals sent to Germany. He’d be using a short wave wireless and I haven’t made one of those.”
“Is it difficult to make a short wave wireless?” asked Bob.
“I shouldn’t think so. I’ve got books that give circuits and explain how to wind the coils. Trouble is, I don’t know what frequency the collaborator uses so I’ll have to wind several coils and try them. That’ll take the most time.”
“How can we help?” asked Jack.
“Find out where he lives if you can. The best place would be at the top of a hill or in a place where he faces the continent. He’d need an aerial, larger the better, but he wouldn’t put it where it could be seen. Maybe it’d be somehow fixed to a tree, though he’d take it down when he wasn’t using it, I bet.”
“We could cycle around and look for likely places once we know who buys round loaves.”
